


What music may we make?

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dracula Influence/References, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: There's something wrong with his neck.On an assignment from Horace Slughorn, Harry travels to Albania to meet with the mysterious Count Riddle.





	What music may we make?

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_One](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_One) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Dracula tomarry!! Harry's boss Slughorn sends him on a trip to Albina to finalise an important sale with an old friend of his. Harry had been enjoying the trip, after his messy break up with Ginny it was a perfect escape from his troubles in Britain and it felt good to explore the wider wizarding world. He didn't even blink an eye at the many warning locals shared when he mentioned his finale destination, Riddle Manor. They were simply superstitious folk. How dangerous could an old friend of Slughorn's be? Little did he know that his arrival at Riddle Manor was greatly anticipated. Count Voldermort had no intention of letting this pretty English boy out of his grasp. I just want more vampire tomarry god damn it!!

There’s something wrong with his neck.

Letting out a gusty sigh, Harry opens his eyes, giving in to the inevitable. 

The sun hasn’t even risen yet, but he knows he won’t be getting any more sleep tonight, not when he can barely turn his head without setting off a pang of discomfort that makes every bone in his body, from his toes to his teeth, ache with it. He allows himself one more moment to lie beneath the warm covers before he tosses them aside, shivering at the rush of cool air across his body. 

The window he closed last night is open.

Shrugging on his discarded shirt from yesterday, Harry stands, suddenly grateful for the gaudy rug that spans the majority of the room he's been given.

As he heads for the adjacent washroom, he takes a moment to push the softly creaking window firmly shut again. He could have sworn he’d latched it last night, but he supposes it’s only natural that a castle as old as this one would have some defective parts. 

Wind howls outside. The glass shakes, and the whole frame vibrates.

That explains it, he thinks. 

While the denizens of the nearby village he met on the day he arrived would no doubt be disappointed in him, as entrenched in their fears of Count Riddle as they are, he doesn’t need to let their superstitions ruin his visit. Slughorn told him to enjoy himself on this assignment, and he plans to do just that. He refuses to let petty fear and baseless accusations get in the way.

Hermione would be so proud.

He shuffles the rest of the way to the washroom, and with every step he takes, the ache in his body grows weaker and weaker, until he can barely feel it.

He reaches for his wand, only to remember that he left it on the nightstand. While he could go back and get it, he refuses to be one of those Wizards who needs to rely on magic for every task, no matter how basic. So, after a bit of fumbling with the box of matches that he finds in a little cubby beside the sink, Harry lights the lamp beside the doorway, and the whole room is cast in an orange glow. He shakes the match out and drops it into the sink, resolving to pick it up in the morning. 

The mirror isn’t the cleanest he’s ever seen, but it serves its purpose well enough, and Harry finally gets a good look at the cause of all his troubles tonight.

About a hand’s width down the left side of his neck are two raised bumps, each surrounded by an alarming bruise. If it weren’t for the blood that weeps sluggishly from the lower one, he might have mistaken them for a rash or perhaps even the result of some self-inflicted injury obtained while he slept. He prods at one of the bumps, and if he weren’t already leaning against the sink to get a good look at the mirror, he definitely would have fallen to the floor as something uncomfortably like pleasure radiates from the wounds. 

Gasping for breath, he drops his hand and resolves not to touch them again.

Or… Not while standing up, at least.

His face and neck flushing with heat, he furiously stomps that thought into the metaphorical ground. 

What could have caused something like this?

His first thought is, of course, vampires. After all, strange bites on the neck are the biggest cliche around when it comes to dealing with those particular beings. But he’s never heard of a bite causing something like—

He clasps his hands behind his back, unnerved by the sudden desire to touch the wounds again.

Luna would no doubt have an answer for him, but Luna is in South America with the grandson of Newt Scamander himself, and he doesn’t want to interrupt her over what might amount to nothing at all. He’ll just have to figure it out himself, he decides, though he resolves to send his letters off to Ron and Hermione as soon as he gets the chance. 

It’s nothing serious, he tells himself. Just another mystery. 

He takes another look at the bumps, but they already appear to be fading. The bruises, however, remain. He’s already cringing at the thought of having to explain their appearance to Count Riddle in the morning. 

Unless…

He grabs the lamp from the wall and goes to dig through his trunk. 

With a triumphant grin, he unearths an old scarf, one of the many products of Hermione’s S.P.E.W. campaign during their fourth year. While it truly is awfully made, he doubts Count Riddle will be  _ too _ offended by the sight of it. And anyway, it’s definitely preferable to presenting himself to the Count while such blatant, suggestive marks are spread across his neck, visible for all to see.

By the time the sun rises and he’s been called down to breakfast, the bruises have yet to fade.

So, with a wistful smile at the memory of his Hogwarts days, he wraps Hermione’s scarf around his neck and sets off, determined not to get lost in the ridiculously large castle the Count calls home. 

When he finally greets the Count later that morning, the man doesn’t quite manage to hide his disdain. Though whether it’s at his scarf or how tired he must look after being up so early, Harry can’t tell. 

“Good morning,” he says as he plops himself down into the chair the Count pulls out for him. 

The Count takes his own seat directly across the table. Instead of following the usual script they’ve established in the past week since Harry arrived, however, the Count asks, “Is something wrong?”

“What?” 

The Count gestures to his neck.

“You’re wearing a scarf,” he says, his lips curling in displeasure. Harry touches one hand to the soft fabric, offended on its behalf. 

“Is it that bad?” he asks, only half joking. 

“If you’re cold,” the Count says, ignoring his question entirely, “I can have a fire lit for you.”

“Oh, um.” Harry feels his cheeks heat, and he regrets being so quick to think the worst of the man. Of course he wasn’t judging his friend’s work; he was only concerned. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

The Count’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t question Harry any further. 

And although he couldn't explain it if he tried, Harry feels suddenly like a very small mammal facing down a bird of prey. 


End file.
